with Landon in his uniform and Cole looking like he’d found the greatest treasure in the world. It did belong in a museum, didn’t it? On a wall between the works of other great artists.
Landon had followed his heart to New York City to fight fires, to the place where his best friend, Jalen, had begged him to come. After September 11, Landon knew Jalen was among the missing. But it took him nearly ninety days to find Jalen’s body in the pile of rubble at Ground Zero. After that, Landon’s dream changed.
“One year in New York,” she could hear him telling her. “I’ll do what Jalen would’ve wanted me to do and put in a year.”
What was it she’d spent a lifetime saying? That she wanted to be a famous artist, have people line up to see her paintings and barter over who would pay thousands of dollars to take one home. She shifted her gaze and took in one painting after another.…
She’d taken digital photographs of each and catalogued them on a computer file. It was all there, wasn’t it? If she wanted to make it as an artist, why was she hiding her artwork in her living room? Was that what God meant by working at it with all her heart? When no one—not even her mother—would ever see her work?
The answer rang clear in her mind.
Bloomington had a few galleries scattered among the quaint shops not far from campus. But the hottest spot, the one place other than Paris where she would’ve died to have her paintings hung, was New York City. Downtown Manhattan on Broadway or Fifth Avenue or one of the streets adjacent to Central Park and the Metropolitan Art Museum.
In that instant, Ashley knew what she had to do.
She thought about it while she returned to the kitchen and finished dinner for Cole. Thought about it after she put him to bed and throughout the long night when all she could imagine was how she would do it and who she would talk to and what she would say.
She had the next morning off, and by then, she had a plan.
With Cole busy out back, she sat at her computer, went on-line, and made a comprehensive list of galleries in New York City. Then she phoned them one at a time and explained her situation. She was an artist with experience in Paris and a roomful of original pieces.
The responses were varied:
“We’re full.”
“The gallery down the street’s looking for new talent. Call them.”
“Four years’ gallery experience is a must before anyone here would be interested.”
But Ashley didn’t give up. For the next week she used every spare moment to contact galleries. With each passing day she fought discouragement, fought the memory of Jean-Claude’s voice and the fact that she’d never been so bold as to take a single painting to even a local gallery since coming home from Paris. If she was going to work at it like Landon worked at fires—like Kari worked at helping people and Erin worked at teaching and Brooke worked at medicine—then she could hardly let a few rejections stop her.
At the end of her second week of phone calls she got a bite.
“Do you have a Web site?”
A Web site! Ashley’s heart jumped, and she had to slow herself down so her words didn’t jumble. She had all the material for a Web site. It wouldn’t take Erin’s husband more than a few hours to put the digital pictures of her artwork onto a simple Web site.
“I should have it up by the end of the week.” She closed her eyes and grinned. “But I can send you a few pictures of my work by E-mail if you want.”
The woman at the other end yawned, and the sound of someone typing filled the line. “Umm, E-mail. Right, okay. Sure.” She rattled off an address. “Send it to me and I’ll get back to you in a few weeks.”
Ashley hung up, E-mailed photographs of ten of her best pieces to the New York gallery, and seconds later had Sam on the phone, convincing him to come by after work and bring Erin. She’d serve dinner and visit with Erin while Sam put together a Web site for her.
“It’s
Landon had followed his heart to New York City to fight fires, to the place where his best friend, Jalen, had begged him to come. After September 11, Landon knew Jalen was among the missing. But it took him nearly ninety days to find Jalen’s body in the pile of rubble at Ground Zero. After that, Landon’s dream changed.
“One year in New York,” she could hear him telling her. “I’ll do what Jalen would’ve wanted me to do and put in a year.”
What was it she’d spent a lifetime saying? That she wanted to be a famous artist, have people line up to see her paintings and barter over who would pay thousands of dollars to take one home. She shifted her gaze and took in one painting after another.…
She’d taken digital photographs of each and catalogued them on a computer file. It was all there, wasn’t it? If she wanted to make it as an artist, why was she hiding her artwork in her living room? Was that what God meant by working at it with all her heart? When no one—not even her mother—would ever see her work?
The answer rang clear in her mind.
Bloomington had a few galleries scattered among the quaint shops not far from campus. But the hottest spot, the one place other than Paris where she would’ve died to have her paintings hung, was New York City. Downtown Manhattan on Broadway or Fifth Avenue or one of the streets adjacent to Central Park and the Metropolitan Art Museum.
In that instant, Ashley knew what she had to do.
She thought about it while she returned to the kitchen and finished dinner for Cole. Thought about it after she put him to bed and throughout the long night when all she could imagine was how she would do it and who she would talk to and what she would say.
She had the next morning off, and by then, she had a plan.
With Cole busy out back, she sat at her computer, went on-line, and made a comprehensive list of galleries in New York City. Then she phoned them one at a time and explained her situation. She was an artist with experience in Paris and a roomful of original pieces.
The responses were varied:
“We’re full.”
“The gallery down the street’s looking for new talent. Call them.”
“Four years’ gallery experience is a must before anyone here would be interested.”
But Ashley didn’t give up. For the next week she used every spare moment to contact galleries. With each passing day she fought discouragement, fought the memory of Jean-Claude’s voice and the fact that she’d never been so bold as to take a single painting to even a local gallery since coming home from Paris. If she was going to work at it like Landon worked at fires—like Kari worked at helping people and Erin worked at teaching and Brooke worked at medicine—then she could hardly let a few rejections stop her.
At the end of her second week of phone calls she got a bite.
“Do you have a Web site?”
A Web site! Ashley’s heart jumped, and she had to slow herself down so her words didn’t jumble. She had all the material for a Web site. It wouldn’t take Erin’s husband more than a few hours to put the digital pictures of her artwork onto a simple Web site.
“I should have it up by the end of the week.” She closed her eyes and grinned. “But I can send you a few pictures of my work by E-mail if you want.”
The woman at the other end yawned, and the sound of someone typing filled the line. “Umm, E-mail. Right, okay. Sure.” She rattled off an address. “Send it to me and I’ll get back to you in a few weeks.”
Ashley hung up, E-mailed photographs of ten of her best pieces to the New York gallery, and seconds later had Sam on the phone, convincing him to come by after work and bring Erin. She’d serve dinner and visit with Erin while Sam put together a Web site for her.
“It’s
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